


Hatred

by Watermelon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watermelon/pseuds/Watermelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Poor little Jim…” Sherlock taunts, his voice a low, cruel whisper. He moves forward, leaning into Jim’s smaller frame as he speaks. “I bet you’re positively devastated about this. You must feel so very betrayed.” </p><p>Jim/Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s dark when Sherlock finally arrives home. He’d been following a lead, or rather, following a crook. It had started off as a boring case regarding the production and sale of counterfeit passports. Hardly worth his time, until people started showing up with their hands, feet and head chopped off. Overall nasty business; the measures taken to hide the identity of a body can be truly gruesome. _Thank God for DNA testing -_ half of the so-far-8 victims had been identified using it. That’s what you get for having a criminal record - you’re easily identifiable, dead or alive. 

He tosses his coat and scarf over the back of John’s arm chair on his way to bed, too tired to bother with hanging it up. It’s the early hours of the morning and he hasn’t slept properly for a couple of days - it’s well and truly time to crash. He doesn’t turn the lights on as he strips, carelessly discarding his clothes in an untidy pile on the chair in the corner, before climbing into bed clad only in his boxers.

“ _Boo._ ”

Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin as he hears the voice beside him cut through the silence, shooting up in bed and turning to face the intruder, braced to defend himself.

“Christ, _Jim_?” He gasps, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He curses under his breath as he lies back down, wondering just how Jim had managed to allude his attention. Perhaps he was off his game - _he was tired, afterall_ \- or maybe he was just losing his touch?

“Surprise!” Jim says playfully, a cheeky Cheshire cat grin on his face. He’s laying on his front at the other side of the bed, his arms crossed lazily under his head. “Did you miss me today? That’s alright, I know you did. I missed you too.”

“What are you doing here?” He inquires, growing considerably calmer as the shock of finding an uninvited guest in his bed begins to subside. _He ought to be used to this by now._

“Tell me you missed me?” Jim whines, pulling a joke of a sad face and somewhat predictably ignoring Sherlock's question.

"Since when does your ' _missing me_ ' warrant a house call?" Sherlock shakes his head and, despite his initial irritation, finds a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “ _Of course_ I missed you. Now, tell me why you’re here.”

“I just came to see my _favourite_ consulting detective." He purrs as he rolls over and climbs on top of Sherlock. "I’ve been waiting for you to come home for _hours_.” He carefully manuevers himself so that he's sitting on Sherlock's hips, before leaning down to brush their lips together in a slow, chaste kiss as he feels Sherlock's hands slowly making their way up his thighs, heavy and warm, squeezing when they reach his arse. He's not really sure what he's doing or _why_ he's doing it. He's too tired for sex, and he really ought to get Jim to leave because _he knows the drill_ : He isn’t allowed in the flat - _especially_ not when John is asleep right upstairs... But then Jim rolls his hips and lets out a _delicious_ moan, and he really can’t help himself. Lifting his head off the bed, he forces his tongue into Jim’s mouth as he kisses him full on.

It’s hot and desperate. Jim is sucking on his tongue and rubbing himself against Sherlock like an animal in heat, all while making obscene little noises that seem to go right the way to Sherlock’s cock. His fingers are teasing the cool metal of Jim’s belt buckle, unhooking it and slipping it open before he moves his attention to his trousers. He’s just managed to get the button open and his fingers are on the zipper, when all of a sudden Jim pulls away. Within seconds, his hands are locked around Sherlock’s throat, squeezing tightly, the tips of his fingers digging in painfully.

Sherlock looks up at him and sees pure rage. The furious glint in Jim’s eyes borders on psychotic, and it _scares_ Sherlock. His hands shift to Jim’s wrists on reflex, desperately trying to pry him off, digging his thumbs into all the right pressure points, but Jim doesn’t relent. He isn't quite sure what’s come over him, and he doesn’t have the faintest _clue_ what the lunatic is thinking, but he does know that he’s in _serious_ trouble.

His vision swims and he realises that he’s running out of time _and oxygen_. He twists a hand around one of Jim’s little fingers and slowly starts to bend it backwards, mouthing at him: _‘I will break it’_.

As the pain starts to kick in, he gives up and loosens his grip just enough for Sherlock to draw in a lungful of air. Jim leans in closer. “I hate you.” He hisses through his teeth. “I hate you. I _fucking_ hate you.” His words are raw and painful, bleeding with anger and sounding almost as if they were torn from his throat. What bothers Sherlock most of all is the desperate sadness that lurks behind Jim’s dark pupils. Looking into Jim’s eyes is like looking into an abyss - _a cold, empty, never-ending abyss_. It’s wrong and, oddly, just a little bit heartbreaking. It takes Sherlock a moment to register the tears in Jim’s eyes. The realisation doesn’t last long, however, as Jim’s fingers twitch, tightening once more.

Sherlock's survival instincts kick in at that point and, using the weight of Jim's own body against him, he flips them over, pinning the smaller man under him and looking directly into his eyes. He hadn’t thought Jim capable of crying, and for a moment it’s truly fascinating. He wants to taste them, he wants to bottle them and sell them on the black market. Tears of a psychopath, the impossible marvel. Come one, come all.

“Snap out of it." Sherlock demands, his voice somewhat hoarse from being half strangled. "What’s wrong with you?”

“You and John are fucking.” He replies coldly. It isn't an accusation so much as Jim stating a fact - he _knows_. 

“So you thought you’d come in here and try to throttle me to death?” Sherlock near-growls, his fists bunched around Jim’s collar.

“ _I. Hate. You_.” Jim snarls in response, each word dripping with its own share of venom. “And I’m going to burn you. I'm going to completely destroy you, Sherlock. _I hate you_.” 

Sherlock loses his patience at that point, and before he realises what he’s doing, his knuckles collide with Jim’s jaw in a hard punch causing his head to snap violently to the side. When he turns back, his lips and teeth are stained with blood.

“I hate you.” He repeats, his anger morphing into something else entirely as his voice becomes unusually strained. “I _hate_ you.”

The pity Sherlock feels for the man is surpassed only by his anger. How _dare_ Jim try to make him feel guilty for this? He’s a criminal. _He kills people_. A murderer has no right to judge someone for acting on their feelings. He's well within his rights to do whatever he wants with _whoever_ he wants. It’s none of Jim’s business.

“Poor little Jim…” Sherlock taunts, his voice a low, cruel whisper. He moves forward, leaning into Jim’s smaller frame as he speaks. “I bet you’re positively devastated about this. You must feel so very _betrayed_.”

Jim laughs, and it's a bitter, hollow sound that sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine. “You're _still_ trying to humanise me. What a joke. It's adorable - _really_ , it is. Tell me, is that how you _justify_ this? _Us_?” Jim's demeanour shifts, his eyes narrowing into thin, furious slits. “Get off of me. Get away from me _now_.”

It takes all of Sherlock's will power _and more_ for him _not_ to move upon hearing that deep, demanding, _dangerous_ tone. “I don’t think I will.” he breathes, before shoving him down harder. “What are you going to do?” 

Jim responds by lashing out, scratching Sherlock in the struggle and managing to land a solid punch to his cheek. To his credit, he almost manages to throw the larger man off. The battle is lost when he finds himself with his arms pinned above his head, completely immobilised. It only takes one of Sherlock’s hands to hold both Jim’s wrists in place as the other snakes up his body and curls its way around his throat.

“We appear to have reversed our roles.” Sherlock emphasises his point with a gentle squeeze to Jim’s neck. “Look at you. How very _pathetic_ you are. You're a criminal, a genius, and one of the most powerful men in London... But right here, right now, in this room, you’re just a frightened body trapped under mine. You need control - you _crave_ it." He pauses to lick his lips, studying Jim intently. The ghost of fear in his eyes is positively _delightful._ "You must be _terrified_.”

Jim doesn't respond, merely opting to glare at his nemesis defiantly, teeth clenched as he tugs at his wrists. Jim's breathing is considerably faster than it ought to be, Sherlock notes as he observes the man's chest rising and falling rapidly. Jim Moriarty,afraid. _How_ _novel_. He finds himself inching forward and touching his lips to Jim’s neck. It's an oddly intimate gesture, he thinks, the drum of Jim's pulse hard against his mouth. In a way, it's oddly satisfying to know that he can have such a profound effect on the criminal, who appears to have stopped struggling for the time being. He parts his lips and sucks the line of the smaller man's pulse softly, feeling the blood racing past his tongue.

He presses a gentle kiss to the hollow of his throat, before pulling back. “I thought as much. Tell me, Jim, _are_ you frightened?”

Jim swallows and closes his eyes, the action causing a tear or two to slip through one of his eyelids and trickle down the side of his face, before settling uncomfortably in his hair. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, his voice cracked and broken and _weak_.

“Why am _I_ doing this? You just tried to kill me!” Sherlock snaps as he tightens his hold on Jim, all but snarling in his face. “Or did you forget that part?”

“Get off of me. I’ve had enough of this. Just get off.” Jim squirms, shifting his body and resisting Sherlock's firm grip.

“Give me one reason why I should.”

Jim opens his eyes then, allowing Sherlock to see the raw emotion tucked away behind them. He waits a moment, letting it all sink in. He watches the detective's face as he registers what he is seeing - as he takes in the sheer _pain_ that is written all over Jim’s face. _He doesn't believe it_. He doesn't believe Jim to be _capable_ of sentiment _of any description_ _-_ the idea of him being _hurt_ by it is a complete shock to the system, mostly because there's _no way_ he could have been _that_ wrong about Jim's character.  
In a flash, any semblance of sadness is gone, replaced by a wicked, almost depraved smirk. "Oh, I can think of one reason." He draws in a long, deep breath, before shouting as loudly as his lungs will let him:

_“JOHN!”_

 


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a moment when everything seems to freeze as Jim’s voice tears through the night. They both stop, stock still, staring at one another. They wait. Seconds drag like hours as they both listen for movement upstairs, and Jim is literally drawing breath to shout again when they hear the faint sound of footsteps upstairs, followed by John’s bedroom door creaking open.

Sherlock’s reaction is immediate. He releases Jim’s wrists and pushes himself away from him, or rather he _would_ have done that, had Jim’s legs not been firmly locked around the back of his. The criminal reaches forward and fists his fingers in the back of Sherlock’s hair, dragging him back down and smirking.

“No, stop!” Jim screams, and in his voice is a make belief terror that can only be described as _frighteningly_ convincing. It isn’t right, Sherlock thinks, for someone to be able to mimic such strong emotions at the drop of a hat, and to do so in such a _flawless_ fashion. He would have made a truly fantastic actor in another life – possibly one of Hollywood’s finest. “Sherlock, please, _please_ just let me go. Get off of me!”

Sherlock looks down in sheer disbelief as Jim starts to fall apart right before his eyes. The transition is unbelievable. Within moments, the hands grasping the detective’s hair are shaking. His brows are drawn together, eyes watering, skin paling, lips quivering...  Jim’s having a panic attack that is too real to be anything other than just that. He’s doing this properly; he’s most likely recalling something traumatic from his past and using it to throw himself into a _genuine_ panic attack, and he’s doing so marvellously.  

Even Sherlock is drawn in by it, tempted to lean forward and offer _comfort to_ his nemesis. _Stop, calm down, it’s alright, I’m here_... Except he can’t, because _he_ did this, _he_ started this. This is _his_ fault, and it’s too late to take any of it back.

John’s outside the door now. They both hear the quiet click of the safety catch being flicked on his handgun.

Jim whimpers, his breath catching in his throat.

“Stop it. Stop it _now_.” Sherlock warns as he desperately attempts to pry Jim off of him before they are discovered. Even to a man such as John, who knows who _and what_ Moriarty is and has seen _firsthand_ what the man is capable of, this doesn’t look good. Sherlock is trapped between Jim’s legs wearing nothing but his boxers, leaning over him – appearing dominating, threatening, _in control_. To any unknowing onlooker, Sherlock is the aggressor. As for Jim – he’s terrified, shaking and bleeding. His trousers are open and he’s smaller than Sherlock, _weaker_. At this point, he’s utterly helpless.

Jim is turning himself into the perfect victim, and there’s nothing Sherlock can do to stop him.

“Please just stop. Let me go. _I’m sorry_.” His voice is weaker now, terribly strained and just a little bit squeaky, almost as if Sherlock’s hands are still around his neck. “Just let me go, I don’t want this.”

The door opens.

John stands there, weapon raised and trained on the two of them. The look of utter shock on his face soon dissipates into something much more akin to hurt as he starts to take in what he is seeing. Jim turns his head and looks right at John, tears in his eyes, before looking back to Sherlock. He pushes the taller man hard, sending him flying onto the other side of the bed, before he quickly scrambles away.

“Stay away from me...” He manages as he backs against the far wall and attempts to fasten his trouser button with shaking hands. He sniffs loudly, and it’s a while before he finally secures the button and moves onto his belt, his eyes flittering nervously between Sherlock, the gun and his own fumbling fingers.

“ _Stop it.”_ Sherlock grabs his dressing gown and shrugs it on, feeling decidedly too naked with just his underwear as protection. _“_ John, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“He’s off his head, John!” Jim raises his hands defensively. John’s gun is trained on him which, Sherlock thinks, is probably a good sign. “I just want to go home. I’m not looking for trouble, I swear. Just let me go, alright?”   

“Don’t move.” John warns, “Would someone please tell me exactly what is going on here?”

Neither of them speaks.

“Sherlock...?”

“He broke in and attacked me.” Sherlock replies. It isn’t far from the truth. “He waited for me and tried to strangle me.”

“He’s lying!” Jim exclaims, glaring at Sherlock before turning to face John and looking him in the eye through a layer of unshed tears, “He’s lying... I swear, I’m telling the truth. Look, just forget about me. You can have him. He’s all yours, okay? I just really need to leave now.”

“This act isn’t convincing anyone, Jim. You’re embarrassing yourself.” Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, “Just stop it.”

“All... Mine? What are you talking about?” John’s brow creases in confusion as he glances from Jim to Sherlock and back again.

“We’re _through_. I’m done. I won’t interfere anymore. Sherlock only ever wanted me for one thing – _distraction_. I’m too emotionally invested, he says, I’m just a shag and I need to _learn my place_.” He swallows, blinking furiously in a poor effort to rid himself of the tears that are his own doing, “That’s when he... I mean, when you walked in... Come on, John. Don’t be dense. You don’t need me to spell it out for you.”

John just looks at him, his expression blank aside from the disbelief evident in his gaze.

“ _You know what you saw_!” Jim shrieks. He runs his hands over his face, drawing attention to the fact that they are still quivering. He catches his split lip, causing blood to smudge over his chin and hands, sticky and red and _obvious_ , and Sherlock knows that it doesn’t escape John attention. “I couldn’t make him stop. I tried, I did, but he just wouldn’t stop.”

John’s mouth falls open, though no words come. He’s utterly floored by what Jim is saying, torn between his faith in his best friend and the terror that is pouring from the man before him.

“Whatever you’re implying, it isn’t true. John, you know me. It isn’t true.” He pauses, waiting for a response that never comes. “John? Surely you don’t believe this _tripe_ , do you?”

... _Except it is true_ , and everyone in the room knows it, John included. Sherlock has been obsessed with Jim since day one. ‘ _Moriarty_ ’, the name first spoken by a dying serial killer, had haunted every corner of his mind. He’d been infatuated with the idea of the man before they’d even met.

And then they _did_ meet, face to face, on that god awful day at the pool. John had never seen Sherlock so worked up. He’d had a bomb strapped to his chest, for crying out loud, and Sherlock hadn’t cared a jot until Jim had disappeared. He’s been utterly and hopelessly entranced by the mad man standing before him. It had turned out that Moriarty wasn’t just a bored genius (like Sherlock), no. Jim was _pretty_. He was witty and clever and he had a keen sense of humour. Despite him being a supposed ‘psychopath’, he’d demonstrated more humanity in the space of five minutes than Sherlock had during the entire course of their friendship. Jim was evil, unhinged and so very _human_... And that had _fascinated_ Sherlock _, just as he had fascinated Jim_.

In retrospect, he supposes he should have seen it coming. Sociopath Sherlock and psychotic Jim: a match made in the blazing pits of hell, forged from blood and hatred and all things vile and dark.  

None of it really matters though, because Jim and Sherlock are, _or were_ , shagging. Because he walked in on the two of them in the dead of night, all over each other, and it looked suspiciously non-consensual and Sherlock wasn’t the victim and... _And he really can’t deal with this_. Sherlock is cheating on him with a murderer and that _isn’t okay_.

“Out.” John says flatly, stepping away from the door and creating a clear path for Jim. “Now.” He glares at the criminal as his eyes shift from the door to Sherlock. “Well, what are you waiting for? _Move!_ ”

Jim flinches, and doesn’t drag his feet as he scurries past the detective as quickly as he can. “Thank you. _Thank you.”_ He utters to John in passing. He glances back, and Sherlock doesn't seem at all prepared for the frankly _betrayed_ look on his counterpart's face. He doesn't have the time to react before Jim disappears through the door and leaves the flat.

“I think we need to talk.”


End file.
